


Kick Ball Change

by mattzerella_sticks



Series: Season 15 Inspired [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Coda, Dancer Castiel (Supernatural), Dancer Dean Winchester, Dancing, Embarrassed Dean Winchester, Episode: s15e10 The Heroes' Journey, F/M, Fun, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Relationship, Slow Dancing, Soft Castiel (Supernatural), Soft Dean Winchester, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22460572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Coda to 15x10 "The Heroes' Journey"Dean has the Bunker to himself at a time after he and Sam regain their supernatural abilities. With nothing needing his attention, he decides taking time for himself wouldn't hurt. But the usual fare leaves him bored and tired.So he tries something new. Something he wanted to try, but wasn't sure he would be good at. Dean starts off strong, but doing it on your own can only be so fun. Get you so far. Luckily a partner happens by and truly allows Dean to enjoy a part of himself he knew was there, but didn't want to share.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: Season 15 Inspired [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517543
Comments: 3
Kudos: 94





	Kick Ball Change

**Author's Note:**

> Season 15 keeps... on... winning! Loved this last episode, especially the dancing dream sequence.
> 
> Which is what inspired this coda. Enjoy!

He leans forward, studying the laptop screen intently. Frowning, eyes flicking left and right while counting along with the instructor. His finger clicks on the trackpad and then pulls back. Restarts the video for the umpteenth time. When Dean feels confident, he pauses the video at the two-minute mark.

Distancing himself from the table, Dean’s stare dips down towards his feet. Watches them repeat the steps. Slowly, like if he were walking on a wintry lake where the ice thinly covered the surface. Imagines the clicks with each soft tap of his heel or a scratchy _swoosh_ when he dragged his toes across the floor.

Through repetition, his skill improves. Instead of the jerky movements from which he began Dean moves with a touch of grace. Soon, he tears his gaze away and trusts that his feet will lead him through the routine without having to watch. Panting, beads of sweat dripping through his hairline, Dean dances the mini-routine at least ten more times. Then he stops and slumps over to the laptop again.

Two minutes. Out of thirty.

“Son of a…” he runs a tired hand through his hair, ignoring the aches in his joints and hits play.

There was only so much time he had anyway.

“I’m heading out.”

Dean glanced up from a magazine, Sam standing a few feet away with his duffel packed. “Where you going?”

“Jody’s,” he said, walking to the stairs, “she called about issues with a wolf pack and wanted some help. By the time her, Donna, and Claire make it there they’ve picked up and moved on.”

Nodding, he marked his page and stood. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be ready –“

“Actually,” Sam coughed, blushing, “I was planning on driving over there alone.”

Stunned, Dean allowed a beat to pass before asking. “Oh?” brow raised, “You sick of me already? Alaska to Kansas too _long_ being stuck in a car with your brother.” It’s only been a day since they returned, but it’s all the difference. Dean and Sam felt more like themselves after their luck returned. Being average was an interesting experience, one Dean never wanted to go through again. He would go _mad_ if it became his reality. “Because I’ll tell you,” he continued, “it wasn’t me stinking up the cabin with those Gas-n-Sip burrito farts.”

Sam’s lips pursed and then thinned. “No,” he said, “you were too busy puking into a plastic bag after eating Bess’s grilled cheeses… _again_.”

Dean shrugged, neck heating up at the memory. “What? They were good.”

“You were lactose intolerant!”

“I call bullshit on that,” he argued, “Cavities, I get. Skills getting rusty, sure. But me gushing chunks after so much as a cheese stick? No – that makes no sense. Chuck was just being a dick with that one… keeping me from cheese.” Dean huffed, crossing his arms, “At least that’s not the case anymore, right? Me and cheese are friends again.” Sam’s bitchiness intensified. “Anyway… why’re you leaving me behind?”

As if Dean stabbed a pin into his balloon, Sam’s irritation deflated into a shyness. His shoe scuffed against the floor. “Well… I wasn’t the first person Jody called.”

“Right, you mentioned Donna –“

“Because, well… because Eileen is still en route.”

The clouds parted. Light streams through and brightened Dean’s face, his grin stretching wide until his cheeks hurt. “ _Oh_ ,” he said, “that’s why –“

“ _Dean_ …”

“You don’t want me crashing your little _date_ ,” he chuckled, delighting in Sam’s scowl. “What? Afraid I’d _embarrass_ you in front of her… like she didn’t see enough when she was haunting our home like Casper.”

“Dean –“

“You already kissed her Sam, and she’s still kicking,” Dean said, slapping the magazine across his knee. Aware of how close Sam was to having a meltdown, he pumped the brakes. “Go. Have fun with your girlfriend hunting weres,” he sighed, “I’ll watch the fort… alone… with nothing but my _hand_ for company.”

Sam huffed, a smile threatening the dark corners of his lips. “You can always call Cas.”

“He’s busy,” Dean told him, mirth draining from his voice. “On his way back from Heaven he found a case in Southern California.” He wrung the magazine in his hands, wrinkling the pages. “You’ll probably be back before him.”

After exchanging quick goodbyes, Sam left. Seconds passed after the front door’s heavy slam, Dean wasting no time to sneak away towards the kitchen. Using his first night to revel in all the shameful acts Sam would cast a judgmental stare at. Like piling meats and cheeses – no vegetables – onto toasted bread. Paired with as many different fries he could find in the freezer and empty onto the baking tray. Enjoyed his meal alongside a very adult film, one Sam would make him watch hidden in his room. Where the grunts and moans were contained. They echoed in the War Room, mixed with Dean’s own laughter.

Except porn can only be so interesting.

He lost interest rather quickly without someone being there, around to possibly walk in. Catch him in the act and then admonish him. Loneliness softened the edges of thrilling danger. By the fifth movie, Dean tied his robe shut and waddled off towards the showers to clean up.

All throughout the shower, Dean wondered what he should do next. Pranking Sam felt too pointless, knowing his brother would return with a goofy smile and good mood that would be difficult to ruin. If he wanted any chance his energies were better saved coming up with over-invasive questions to pester him with.

Outside the washroom, Dean turned and wondered about the shooting range. The idea fit like an old shirt. Familiar, but ineffective. Dean outgrowing the need to blast bullet holes in his problems. Especially boredom.

He kept thinking while in the shower, lathering his body on autopilot. Not realizing he finished until he saw his reflection. Towel wrapped around his hair, eyes tinged red from where shampoo must have fallen in, and a piece of floss hanging from his mouth.

“I want you to promise me you’ll floss from now on,” Garth said, shoving the plastic cartridge into his hand.

Lips pursed, he tried handing it back. “If Alaska’s what you promised, I doubt I’ll need to worry about my teeth again.”

Garth fought, forcing his fingers around it with the supernatural strength he reminded Dean at every chance during this encounter. The pressure around his wrist sent sparks firing up his spine like fireworks. “It don’t matter,” he growled. “Luck is temporary. Good teeth are forever.”

His gums tingled with minty freshness, but it wasn’t too horrible. Better than the cavities, or the process it went to fill them.

“But that laughing gas…”

He propped himself up on the sink, remembering the insane choreography his mind dreamed up during that affected state. Inspired by some Ginger Rodgers-flick he must’ve caught late at night when he couldn’t sleep. And after flipping through channels, stumbling upon her spinning in Fred Astaire’s arms and marveling at the ease with which they both glided through the number made the late hours pass in a blink until Sam knocked on his door, inviting him for breakfast.

It looked supernatural, but Fred and Ginger weren’t blessed like Sam and Dean. Their talent came from hard work, and not a boost from God.

“But anyone can be a good dancer,” he mumbled, “I bet, with time, I could…”

Resolved, Dean tore the floss from his mouth and hurried to get changed. A simple hoodie and sweats, easy to move in. Hurried to his laptop left in the war room, frozen in ecstasy, and began the search.

The first few websites he tried were articles. They detailed what Dean needed to start and the different types of dancing he could try. A few looked rather impossible for a beginner like him, and others required _two_ participants. An hour in, he found one written by a former tap dancer detailing the history of the style and their experience in the last twenty years. He sat, captivated, learning how it was more than just simple _clickity-clacking_. How tap mixed together a variety of cultural styles and grew in popularity. Transitioning from minstrel shows to vaudeville acts and jazz. Booming from the late Eighteen hundreds into its height of the twenties and thirties, slowly falling out of the spotlight after that.

“Each class I took I felt a little bit happier with myself,” the author wrote, “I didn’t really have much to be proud of… some days it was like I passed through the day. Existing, but doing nothing with my life. Watching myself dance in the mirror and complete a complicated routine and thinking ‘I did that’ it… it gave me the energy to make it into the next day.”

At the bottom of the article, a few links auto-populated to tap dancing videos. Dean clicked on the first and spiraled.

He’s hungry, skipping lunch and dinner to dance. It’s probably nighttime, except Dean won’t check his phone. All Dean knows is that there is a minute left of the video, his ankles hurt, and he has only a few more steps to go until putting it all together.

“Okay,” he says, dragging the button to the very start, “let’s give this a try.”

Dean waits for the music to play, nerves twisting together and strangling his heart. He ignores them in favor of focusing on the instructor counting him in. His foot slides to the side and lightly taps the floor. Gentle smack mixing with the jazzy piano and clack from the professional tap shoes. Repeats the process with the other foot.

And then he’s dancing.

It’s not the greatest, Dean stumbling a few times. But he powers through. Does as he read and keeps moving onto the next step.

Halfway through he finds the pain in the lower half of his body overpowered by the ache in his face from smiling too wide, for too long. Exhaustion fades as Dean allows the joy of dance to flood in. Stops thinking and blacks out, coming to when the video ends.

Silent save for the singular clapping from nearby.

Dean whirls around, startled. He trips over himself, snapping the laptop closed. Fire crawls up his shirt and tints his neck, Dean glad the hood hides most of it.

Castiel arches a brow at the display, hands paused on the downswing in a mock prayer. “That was wonderful Dean,” he says, “I didn’t know you could dance.”

Tongue heavy, he tries his best. “I don’t. I mean… not really. Not professionally and, usually, not at all. But I… I had the time, and I thought I could do it. Figured, while I was on my own, I’d see if I could do it.” Dean folds his arms over his chest, huffing a deep breath. Painfully aware of the sweat stains soaking his fists while they hide in his armpits. “Just started doing it a couple of minutes ago actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, drifting closer. Castiel drags his fingers across the map until he reaches the laptop. Hand hovering over Dean’s, almost touching it. Radiating heat and electricity that leaves him jumpy and frozen to the ground.

“You’re really talented,” he says, “and you never did this before?” Dean shakes his head, too afraid his voice would break if he were to use it. “Amazing… do you think –“ Castiel chuckles, gaze darting to the side and away from Dean. “Do you think I could join you?”

“You… what?”

“I might not be any good,” he continues, “but you were enjoying yourself, and I could…”

His expression shifts, crinkles of delight smoothing around his eyes into a somber reflection. Dean frowns, “Hey. You could what?”

“I could…” He breathes deeply, “I could use the distraction. Things haven’t been going my way the past couple of days…”

“The hunt?”

Castiel draws into himself, Dean following until his fingers hit the edge of the laptop. “I wasn’t all that needed,” he says, “When I got there, it was in time to group up with another pair of hunters who already taken down the shifter in its nest. Barely spent an hour in town…”

“Well,” he shrugs, “at least the monster was taken care of.”

“Still,” Castiel wryly smirks, “I can’t help the selfish feeling of wanting to be the one to solve the case. To come back home with some sort of accomplishment under my belt.”

Dean understands where his angel’s mind is. Replays their last conversation, where Castiel told Dean that none of the angels left in Heaven had an inkling of where Chuck might have gone. If he hung around their plane of existence or moseyed on to greener pastures. How disappointed he felt. “Another failure –“

“Don’t say that,” he mumbled, turning away from Sam so the other man couldn’t hear him. Wouldn’t if he kept his head buried in his book. “You got the Leviathan blossom, remember?”

“And look how well that went.”

There wasn’t any other option. So, when he opens the laptop and clicks on the next video, he guides Castiel to where he stood when practicing. “Let me know when you want me to pause it,” he says, “and don’t be afraid to ask me to play it back if you need to. Oh,” he tugs on the trench coat’s lapels, “You might want to lighten your wardrobe. Probably be more difficult dancing with all this on.”

Castiel nods, slipping free from his armor. Allows Dean to hang both coat and suit jacket on a nearby chair, tossing his tie after unwrapping it. He finishes rolling up his sleeves when the first video begins. “Thank you, Dean.”

“It’s literally nothing Cas. Now pay attention, it’s… dammit, she already started. Hold on let me go back.”

Dean tries his best. But dancing becomes increasingly difficult with the addition to his class. Every so often Castiel’s elbow knocks into his and the entire routine falls apart. Lucky that he didn’t own tap shoes to start with, so mistakes went unnoticed. Castiel’s heavy brow furrowed while he pieces together the steps.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Castiel says, foot flapping on the floor like a dying fish. Laughing, hopping between left and right. “I like this.”

Dean giggles alongside him, dizzy from either the lack of food or air. His friend stealing all of it from his lungs. “Yeah. Dancing’s fun.”

“Why don’t we do this more often.”

“Well, uh…” Dean scratches his chin, “I mean, men aren’t… men don’t dance, all that much. At least we’re not supposed to.”

“Who said?”

“…Society?”

Castiel nods. He pauses the video, never breaking his stare with Dean. “I see… that’s why you were doing this when neither Sam nor I were here, then?” Dean shrugs his answer. “Society’s rules are stupid,” Castiel continues, smiling, “and you’re a lovely dancer. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

“I’m not,” he rushes to defend. Wincing when Castiel’s brow arches at him. “I wouldn’t be… if I knew I was good. I hadn’t done all that much dancing before now.”

“And after?”

“After what?”

“After today,” Castiel asks, “Will you continue dancing?”

His face burns hotter. “I don’t know,” Dean says. Pouts and hides his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “It’s fun, but at my age… all this is kind of a killer on the body. I might not be able to kick for about a month.”

He hums again. “Well,” Castiel turns to the video, “what you chose to do can be… _intense_. Are there any other styles of dance you’re interested in exploring?”

Dean didn’t think he would agree so readily. And after explaining how it would work, figured Castiel would respectfully decline. Instead he asked Dean what song would best fit the style. Hung close while Dean typed into the search bar, hip pressed tight to his shoulder. Devil nowhere in sight because the presence of his angel shone too bright.

“So,” he says, soft music playing in the background, “we kind of… leave our hands like this.” Dean places one of Castiel’s on his shoulder, the other floating for a long beat until, taking too long, Castiel twines their fingers together. “What –“

“I’ve seen some people do this,” Castiel says, “Is that not right?”

“No, no you’re right. It’s just…” Very intimate. A loaded gesture. Not an act he ever would have pictured escaping his dreams and becoming reality. People like Garth and Bess could enjoy it… Sam and Eileen if they worked through their issues… but him and Cas? “It’s fine,” he says, “really.”

“You’re sure –“

“Dammit Cas, shut up and sway.” Dean ends their conversation, coaxing the other man into a rhythm so he wouldn’t have to talk any longer. Calmed when he joins and relinquishes the fight. He dives headfirst into the gentle waves of guitar strings. A soothing country melody the soundtrack to their first dance.

Dean peeks at Castiel’s profile and tamps down the awed sigh exploding in his chest. Only a glimpse needed to see the whole picture. Fills in the blank canvas with an unviable future. Maybe Dean wears something fancier than the hoodie with holes in random places from countless moth bites. A sleek black tuxedo tailored to show every curve and angle. Or pure white, so radiant and shining he personifies Heaven. Shiny wingtips that would capture the reflection of the happiest day his life could produce.

All the fancy window dressing for him wouldn’t fit Castiel. He would wear his armor like always, Dean holding tight to the trench coat as they circled the floor. Dean stares at it where it rests now. Hides his smile in Castiel’s shoulder, giving nothing away.

“Dean?”

Humming, Dean squeezes and grips Castiel’s shirt tight in his fist. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think this is appropriate…” Wings clipped, Dean hurdles to Earth. His feet stumble over each other in his rush to stop, and suddenly his angel’s touch turns cloying. Before he can say anything, though, Castiel continues. “Aren’t we supposed to go fast when the music picks up?”

“What?”

“The song’s over,” Castiel says, lips quirking at the ends. Dean tunes into his surroundings to find the music changed to a mid-tempo rock song that, while not too speedy, definitely put their earlier moves out of place. He blushes, stepping away from Castiel. “Wait,” he says, closing in around Dean’s wrist. Keeping him close. “are we done dancing?”

Hope glitters in Castiel’s eyes, blinding Dean from escape. “No,” Dean tells him, “We can still dance.”

“How does one dance to a song like this?”

“…Watch.”

Dean spins on his heel, startling Castiel. Wastes no time in shedding the sludge of his overreaction, shaking it off with each wild bounce of his limbs. Hops from left to right, grinning like he was sixteen again. Slammed between punks in the middle of a crowded room while a band blasted his eardrums deaf.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, laughing.

Dean bounds close and snags Castiel’s hand, dragging him forward. “I’m dancing!”

“This is dancing?”

“Yeah!” He won’t release him until the other man joins him. Holding Castiel hostage, demanding a ransom of stupidity and silliness. His angel reluctantly allows his shoulders to shrug in time. From how horribly he schools his features, though, Dean knows not an ounce of disdain lives within. “Come on, Cas. You wanted to dance? It’s not all sweeping ballrooms or planned directions. Sometimes it’s frantic. It’s crazy. It’s the first thing that comes to mind!”

“The first thing that comes to mind?”

Dean reigns in his excitement at the deviousness peppering Castiel’s grin. Lessens his jumps to tiny hops. “What are you -?”

Castiel spins him off. Sends Dean flying with a strength that nearly has him kissing the floor. Instead he slides to a stop and spends a beat regaining his balance. Confident in his ability to stand straight, Dean whirls to face Castiel. The comment locked into the barrel of his mouth misfires and leaves his jaw hanging.

His angel mirrored him, slightly. Jumps tinged with caution, hesitation etched into the lines of his smile. Arms arcing to and from, fists raised high above his head until slamming down. “Like this?” he asks.

Nodding, Dean hisses a low whistle. “Beautiful.”

“...Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to watch me or are you going to dance?”

He chuckles, “What I do Cas… you can’t just call _dancing_.”

When listening to music, Dean always paid attention to when it began and ended. Learned how to tell when one song bled into another. Differentiate between the minutia, varying chords played or notes sung in the arrangement. Could identify a song in the first few seconds of air time.

However, with Castiel, Dean cannot believe one song can last into eternity. Loses himself in the moment and lets everything else fade into static. Nothing more important than seeing how wide Castiel’s lips can stretch until they rip in half. Dean goads his good humor with ridiculousness after ridiculousness. He shimmies hips and drags his fingers across his eyes, Castiel smirks. Kicking a chair, collapsing into it and pretending to drop a bucket of water over his body makes his angel chuckle. Laughter erupts when Dean tries to teach Castiel how to do the macarena.

They’ve devolved in their movements. Exhaustion cutting the wires above Dean’s elbows and wrists. His panting overpowers the music.

Dean shuffles backwards to sit on the edge of the war table. Castiel joins, bracketing him in on either side with his arms. Accidentally closing the laptop with a drunken slap from his hand. “Oops.”

“Cas,” Dean sighs, lightly shoving his chest, “serious party foul.”

“My bad,” he says, tilting his head in the familiar way that causes Dean’s hear to beat double-time. “Although… I doubt this party would have lasted any longer.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact you can barely keep your eyes open for less than a minute…” Castiel’s hand traces Dean’s arm, crawling up it and leaving fire in its wake. It settles on his cheek, thumb brushing against the stubble there. “Dean…”

He fights against the molasses slowly pouring down his face and covering his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Dean, I –“

_Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap_.

Castiel slaps his face. He doesn’t, but the speed with which his hand tears itself away from Dean stings like a slap. Both turn and stare above at Sam, the taller man clapping from the balcony.

“Wow,” he says, stomping down the nearby staircase, “you two were good. I didn’t know either of you had the skills… but I guess that’s on me, isn’t it?”

“Sam,” Castiel says, pouting, “How long have you been…”

“Not long.” He shrugs off his duffle, dumping the bag at his feet. “I caught the grand finale… a nice welcome home. Although you didn’t have to. I could’ve enjoyed it at breakfast instead of three in the morning.”

“Three in the morning?” Dean asks, fumbling for his phone. Blinking on, the curved number mocks him. “That long…”

A throat clears from nearby. He looks from his phone to Castiel, his angel fiddling with his hands. “I didn’t realize,” Castiel says, gathering his jackets, “it’s late… I should probably let you two rest. Sam. Dean…” One meaningful gaze that leaves Dean feeling exposed and raw later, Castiel exits.

Something rocks into his side, knocking him to the left. Sam smirks, sitting too close to him on the table. Eyebrow cocked in brotherly mischief. Dean scowls, “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re a jerk, you know that.”

Sam laughs, “I think I was within my rights.”

“I could’ve been so much worse to you, y’know,” Dean says, “I almost cut holes in all your underwear.”

“Glad to hear you didn’t.” He claps Dean’s leg, pushing off the table and snatching his duffle. “Cas is right. We need our rest…” Sam walks as far as the doorjamb, stopping underneath to round on him. “By the way… remember what I was talking about? About Cas’s staring? _That’s_ what I meant.”

Dean fumes in his wake. “Oh yeah? Well… at least he _stares_ at _me_!” His brother’s obnoxious laughter was the worst music he heard that night. Too wired to follow the others to their respective bases, Dean instead opens his laptop again and hits play.

It’s not the same, but it’s a reminder. A possibility. Hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked! Let me know what you thought by dropping a kudos/comment below :)


End file.
